In The Sun
by the-unforgiving
Summary: When Buttercup passes on, it affects Katniss more than she thought it would. Post Mockingjay; pre epilogue. One-shot.


**A/N: I couldn't get the idea out of my head, so I ended up writing this one shot. It isn't very good, but if you read it, I hope you enjoy it.**

**WARNING: If you have only seen the movies and haven't also read the books, there's spoilers for Mockingjay.**

In The Sun

As usual, I wake before Peeta. I slip out of bed quietly and pick up my boots, slipping them on as well as my father's jacket once I get to the door. Going downstairs to start on the breakfast, the disgusting smell of cat sick hits me, and immediately, I go to check the cat basket. Peeta insisted on having it downstairs so the cat from hell could have somewhere comfortable to sleep in the Winter, but the cat always hated it and never really used it, until a few months ago.

Once I get to the cat basket, I completely freeze. Buttercup is still. Completely still. Slowly, I kneel down and check for any sign of life, but quickly I find out there is none. That cat. That cat. That stupid, stupid cat. I don't know why at first, but I grab the cool blue pillow in the basket and hug it tight as I realise what really is wrong - she's gone. She's all gone. Sure, her bedroom has still been left as it was before the bombings and the Quell, her things all out as they were that day, but there's nothing living related to her left. Prim's gone. Every living piece of her is gone.

I throw the pillow to the floor and do what I always do when I feel like this - run to the woods and hunt. I take my game bag and my bow and arrows and go, breathing in the fresh air of the morning. Peeta won't be worried when he wakes up to see me gone; he will know where I must have gone once he sees the dumb cat downstairs and will know that in my own time, I will be back by the end of the day with dinner. Meat is no longer a rarity in District Twelve, but I still prefer to hunt my own, even if the memories that come with venturing into the woods are less to be desired sometimes.

For a few hours, I try to hunt the day away, several squirrels and rabbits ending up in my game bag by the time noon rolls around. I almost catch a deer, but for once it is too quick for me, and this time, I decide to let it go and instead, I decide to head down to my father's lake. If my father was still here, what would he think of me? Would he be proud of me to some degree? Would he be disappointed? Would he be angry that I didn't save Prim, that I do not talk to my mother any more? I try not to think about these things.

Thinking will not bring back my father. Thinking will not bring back Prim. Thinking will not bring back Rue. Thinking will not bring back all of the hundreds of children that were slaughtered in The Hunger Games, and now, thinking won't bring back Buttercup.

Most of all, I just feel stupid. I knew it was coming. When he stopped eating, no matter what inventive ways Peeta tried to get him to eat something even when I gave up, when he lost all that weight, when he stopped venturing out into the woods and the new District Twelve sometimes not returning for days on end, instead choosing to spend his days lazing around in the cat basket he had always rejected, I knew he was getting ill, and though I didn't know why at the time, it scared me.

I never truly liked that cat. When we first 'met,' I hated him; he was just another mouth to feed in District Twelve, a place that was already swarming with many, many mouths to feed, and if it wasn't for Prim, who managed to find something in him I never would have saw, he would have been drowned. After that it was threats to be cooked and hissing until I went into my first Games, and after that, we bonded over our now non-existent old house... and after that, we mourned over the loss of Prim.

A tear rolls down my cheek, but I quickly brush it away, willing myself to keep more from falling. I pick myself up and attempt to trap a few more rabbits, arriving home in the evening.

When I do, I notice a hole has been dug up in our garden. I go inside and see Peeta at the table, holding a painted box. Once he sees me, he silently greets me and once I see what he is painted, my eyes almost well up with tears again. On the box is the painting of a primrose, with Buttercup's name in the middle.

Peeta takes my hand and squeezes it firmly and together we go outside, laying the box in the hole he had dug. We bury Buttercup amongst the evening primroses that Peeta planted here so long ago and once the box is covered with soil, I swear I can hear the laughter of two young girls from above.

xxxx


End file.
